


What You Can Get

by FriedCatfish



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, sad skeletons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriedCatfish/pseuds/FriedCatfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underground, he knew what to expect. Now, at any point, it could all be gone without warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ironically, after they reached the surface, Sans came to sleep the least of any of them.

Underground, there was structure, and things were predictable. Even if he didn't  **remember**  the past perfectly, there was only one direction the kid could go in. It was a song looping eternally: 1-2-fall-rest, 1-2-ruins-rest, Snowdin, Waterfall, Hotlands, the capital. He could rest easy, because he always knew where he needed to be and when he needed to be there, and he could be relatively certain that things wouldn't go back before the end.

But then, after the barrier came down, after everything **should** have been over, the conductor kept their baton high in the air – still and steady – and everyone, whether they knew it or not, was only waiting for it to come down again.  _Once more, from the top._ And they'd all play the same miserable parts, hatred and misery and despair and obsession and...

Loneliness. Speak of the devil. “you're up late, tori.”

If she's startled, she doesn't show it – she never does. “Oh, good evening, Sans. Yes, I suppose I am. I've been thinking about snails more than usual, you see.”

“...go on.”

“Well, when my mind isn't on baking, it's racing!” Toriel smiles, waiting for a reaction. Sans can't help but wonder if he's heard the joke at least a dozen times before, delivered in the same way on the same evening at the same time. It makes it hard to laugh, but he does so anyway. No sense in being impolite. “But what about you?” Her smile fades, while Sans keeps his in place. “I'd be surprised to see you awake before ten, let alone at this time of night...”

He could tell her about the readouts and the reports and the timelines that simply stop existing, one day, for reasons he hasn't yet figured out – reasons  _none_ of him has figured out, reasons he can only guess at from what Frisk has told him. He could tell her about Gaster, if he thought she would believe it. He could tell her about vague memories of death and failure and regret, memories he can't quite bring back no matter how hard he tries, or the constant, looming fear that he'll wake up one day in Snowdin and the past several months will be wiped out of existence.  _but then she'd have a bad time,_ he reasons,  _and for what?_ So instead, he snickers, and replies:

“maybe it's some kind of natural balance. you get more snail-y, and i get less sluggish.”

And she laughs –  _bleats,_ really, one of the few ungraceful things she ever does, but Sans appreciates it. A big, goofy laugh means he's making other people happy, and that's just about the only thing that still feels worthwhile. “Does that mean you're ready to stop being so mysterious and start coming out of your shell?”

And so it goes, for quite a while – two old souls standing in the dark, swapping gastropod puns. But the world keeps turning and Sans can't get rid of that feeling gnawing at him, that feeling of  _don't enjoy it too much – you should go do something else._ And there's only so many puns they can use until the well runs dry, so he finally decides to bite the bullet and excuse himself.

“it's always fun talking to you, tori, but i'm tired and i have a lot of work to not be doing. i'm gonna escargot make myself some tea.” Sans wanders off, rolling his shoulders, feeling much better than he was not long ago (but the dread's still there in the back of his mind, simmering, cheapening his happiness). A fluffy hand on his shoulder causes him to stop in his tracks.

Slowly, softly, Toriel asks, “If it would not be too much trouble, would you be willing to make coffee?”

Sans knows exactly what she's  **actually** asking, and he stiffens.  _not now. too soon._ Even if it were just a shared drink, between friends, it feels significant, and Sans has feared any and all significant developments for years now. _you can't let your guard down this early, you'd be **begging**_ _for a reset, begging_ _for it to all be pointless._ But he can't tell his Queen that, can't tell his friend that. Better to play it off. “sure, i can do both. i'm pretty thirsty tonight.”

“I would like to drink coffee  _with_ you, Sans. You are my first close friend in a long while, other than Frisk. It would be nice to 'hang out,' just the two of us.”

For a split second, Sans wonders if he should keep trying to drive her off – argue, make an excuse, distract her with more jokes – but that would be  _effort_ , wouldn't it?

“alright, but i should warn you.” He leans in close, raising his hand to the side of his face in the classic stage-whisper gesture. “some jerk loosened the cap on the sugar thingy and switched the half-and-half with the milk.”

“Goodness! Now who would ever do something like that?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

If there's one thing Toriel loves about the surface – a singular thing to represent everything they had lost and regained, everything that her people had been longing for for centuries – it's fresh air. The way it tastes, the way it smells; the way, on a cold night like this, it feels thick and heavy as you inhale. She wonders if Sans can tell the difference, sans _(heh)_ skin or a respiratory system.

She takes a sip of coffee (strong, a bit of sugar, no cream or milk); drinking something hot on a night like this makes her mouth feel like the fireplace back in the ruins, radiating warmth and comfort through her. Sans, as usual, had downed his immediately and without letting it cool, filtering it through his teeth and letting the steam flow through his nasal cavity and eye sockets. Now he leans on the railing of the balcony, staring out at the valley and the highway that runs through it.

Toriel takes another sip. _Someone needs to ask him eventually. It is as good a time as any._ “Sans?” As quietly as she can, she clears her throat. “Is something... wrong? Something on your mind?”

“nah, i'm just stargazing.”

“...But you are looking at the ground.”

Sans makes a big show of rubbing his jaw, pantomiming deep thought. “huh, so i am. guess i must be cargazing, then. or maybe it's the asphalt that caught my eye, and i'm targazing.”

Toriel stands up, walks over, places her hand on his shoulder again. He doesn't move an inch. “Papyrus has said that you have been holed up in your room. More than usual. We are worried about you.” Sans says nothing; she considers leaving it there, letting the statement hang there, but feels the need to say more. “You are _not_ the only one who can read others, Sans.”

He laughs exactly once – that air-through-your-lack-of-nose third-of-a-snort thing. Toriel doesn't know why, but she knows him well enough to know what it means, and what it doesn't mean; if it were **funny,** he'd be stone-faced or chuckling, maybe even laughing out loud. It's bitterness, and she... she recognizes bitterness better than she would ever like to admit. “yeah. thanks, tori. i'll keep it in mind.”

“Sans, I'm **serious.** ” She turns him around and takes his hand, hard and cold and small (relatively, at least), in hers, so soft and warm. Sans finds himself blushing, and as much as he tries – as wide as his grin is – it's clear that there's something just beneath the surface that he's desperately working to hide. “We...” Toriel swallows; _no, that's not the right word, is it?_ She settles on “We care about you very much,” and then “ **I** care about you very much. I want you to enjoy life up here.”

His grin goes shaky – but he refuses to let it disappear. And he wonders: _is this all new, or have i just not gone through it enough to go numb? or maybe i've done it a thousand times but never see it coming_. It doesn't matter, though. Whatever the mechanism is, he silently starts to cry as the weight of everything he knows, everything he fears, everyone he loves presses down on him. “aw, jeez. now look what you've done.”

Toriel's eyes are wide. “Sans, I –”

“but hey, no, you're right. this place **is,** uh, a far cry from snowdin.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Sans, please! You are – you should not just –” Toriel can't put the words together, which is **wrong,** putting words together was her whole **job** for **centuries,** and she's _good_ at it, normally, even when things are painful. But she's caught off guard, and for the first time in a long while, nothing comes out.

“...not, uh, not my best material, huh?” Sans doesn't seem to mind. He clutches her hand tightly, closes his eye sockets, breathes deeply. “tori. i made a promise to you, way back when, and i kept it, right?”

She nods. “Frisk told me as much.”

“i need you to... to promise to let this go.” Sans pulls his hand away and offers her a hug – an _impractical_ gesture, given her height, and a brief one... and yet. “maybe someday i'll tell you. but just... try to keep your mind off it until then, okay? it'll be better for both of us.”

Toriel frowns. “Are you truly certain of that?”

“there's not much i'm uncertain about.” Sans opens his sockets back up, drying them one last time. His smile is resolute. “but no. i'm not. just humor me.”

She sighs. “...I do not like it, but I will respect your wishes.”

“that's all i can ask for.” And without another word, he leaves.

Toriel picks up her coffee again – it's starting to get cold, and she doesn't want it to go to waste – and walks over to the edge of the balcony. Way off in the distance, she can see the bright lights of the human city, and it's dark enough that she can hardly tell them apart from the stars in the sky. And to the left and right and all down the mountain, she sees the little cabins and apartments that have gone up so quickly, and the public garden Asgore's so proud of. The gas station and the grocery store and the “Surface's First MTT Burger!” by the highway. The school and the library – there's almost no books left in the underground, now, with most of them brought up for preservation. All this, so quickly, after so much time spent waiting.

 _It will be alright,_ she tells herself. _Whatever may happen... we have this, now._

She finishes her coffee, heads into the kitchen, and places the mug in the sink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS ONE TOOK FOREVER LMAO...
> 
> A slower one w/ more sadness + less cute times. don't worry I'm planning to have a lot of fluff in the next chapter

Sans comes to in an instant and without any drowsiness, as if awakened by a nightmare he's already forgotten. He's disoriented, at first – _not my room, not our house –_ but then he sees the overflowing trash can in the corner; the carefully-organized bookshelves, half dense scholarly texts and half comic books; the cheap folding table covered with tools and blueprints and half-finished prototypes, the spears and swords and rifles hanging on the walls, the plush deep-sea-themed carpeting below his feet.

And in front of him... a sturdy desk with **that** machine on it, partly disassembled. Quiet, low-pitched static comes from the transceiver (the only bit which still works reliably). _either nobody's broadcasting, or i gotta tune this thing_ _**again.** _ _ugh._

He stretches as far as he can (i.e., not very), a couple of his joints softly cracking. _was i really working that long?_ His lack-of-a-stomach rumbles, and as if on cue:

“Oh!” Sans jumps at the noise. “Y-you're finally awake.” Alphys tromps down the stairs, carrying a can of soda and a plate with a single toaster waffle (slightly burnt) and some microwave sausages on it. She carefully places it on the desk, next to a slightly damp washcloth (presumably put there to soak up his drool), then reaches into one of the perpetually-bulging pockets of her labcoat to pull out a beverage of her own.

Sans mumbles “thanks, al,” and crams the waffle into his mouth.

Alphys clears her throat, shuffling over to the side of the desk and making to lean on it before deciding she shouldn't. “M-making any headway?” she asks, and before the words are out of her mouth she understands what a dumb question it is.

Sans laughs it off; if he's going to let himself feel down every time he tries and fails to do anything useful, he'll only get even **more** depressed. “well, my head sure weighed a lot yesterday night, but not much besides that.”

“Ah.” She drums her fingers on the table. “It... it was nice having you over. For dinner, I mean. I k-kind of like cooking, but it's n-not something I really do unless I need to, you know?”

“i mean, undyne could have done it.”

A pause, and then laughter all around. Undyne is great in a lot of ways, but Alphys, as much as she's been absolutely and endlessly infatuated with her for as long as she can remember... well, it's hard to ignore someone's shortcomings once you start living with them.

(Even though it was now **extremely** redundant, she'd gone back to edit some of her domestic-life fanfics accordingly. It just seemed wrong to leave them so out of character.)

“seriously, though. last meal that stuck so well to my ribs was a glamburger with extra glue.”

“Oh, yeah. Apparently that... c-cat? In Mettaton's, uh, entourage c-convinced him to t-try out a version with actual... meat and bread.”

“no foolin'.”

For a while after that, the only sound is Sans chewing; eventually, it gets a fraction louder when Alphys cracks open her soda. Still, Sans enjoys it. _sometimes you just have to... relax, on a morning like this, and be with a friend. sometimes that's better than doing anything, talking about anything._

It can't last. “Sans.” Alphys is... serious, all of a sudden, which Sans isn't used to. Around him, at least, she's always the type that makes even her deepest concerns sound like jokes. “You... look, I, I shouldn't – it might not be my p-place to say this to you, b-but I'm your... your friend, and colleague, and –”

He cuts her off. “with all due respect, al...” Then, his pupils go dim _(if she's gonna act all serious, i might as well do the same)_. “We haven't been **colleagues** for a long while.”

Alphys just rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay. St-still, I'm your friend, okay? And this... it's not healthy for you, Sans.”

For a long while, he just sits there; at first, Alphys thinks that maybe he didn't register the question. Then, just before she can repeat herself, he sighs. “you think i don't know that?”

Alphys drags a beanbag over from the corner and plops down next to him. “L-look. This is... easy for me to say, b-because I don't, I don't remember him – not really, anyway – but...” Her voice gets very quiet, yet at the same time, she sounds more confident, more certain. “...he isn't coming back, Sans. We tried, both of us, and we couldn't even figure out where to **start.** If...” She places a hand on his shoulder, but he just shakes it off. “If you were going to have an epiphany, you would've... you would've had it by now.”

“...it's not about him. it's just... y'know. some people won't ever give up, even if there's **no** benefit to persevering whatsoever. just so happens i'm one of 'em.” He pulls the tab on his own soda and takes a swig, wincing slightly at the taste – too much carbonation, not enough sugar. “...number 712 stopped reporting in the other day.”

“...Oh. Jeez. You... you think s-something happened to him?”

Sans laughs. _yeah, him and everyone else in that timeline, i bet._ He still hasn't let Alphys in on everything he knew about what was happening, let alone the stuff he only had theories about. How could you tell someone that she'd killed herself at least a hundred times? That her girlfriend had melted before his eyes, or turned into a tyrant, or started loafing around on his couch twenty hours a day because anything else seemed like too much of a chore? How could you tell someone that, at any moment, she might lose the best several months of her life and _she would never have any idea?_

But he's told her **enough.** Enough that she can understand his concerns, more or less. “...yeah. something happened.”

She bites her lip. “You – I mean, he c-could have just... lost interest? Moved on?”

“...his broadcasts were getting shorter, i guess.” He wants to believe it, but he really can't. _what in the world would make him_ _**lose interest** _ _in something so important?_

But he already knows the answer. Attachments. Love. Getting caught up in the moment, and letting himself believe that sweet lie, that **this** time the future, no, the **present** was secure, that this time he could just be with his friends and his family and his... lover – _no, that's not_ – his –

“Ha! You t-turned around quickly, huh?” She flops onto her stomach, leaning her elbows on the floor and her chin on her hands. “Thinkin' of a certain B-Boss Monster?”

Sans groans. He's certainly glad that Alphys has gotten a little more confident and comfortable with herself ever since Mettaton made up with her and she and Undyne made it official, but it gets to be a pain when she does things like **this.** “heh. guess you can see right through me, huh?”

“R-really, though. Listen.” She takes a deep breath. “I know this is... pretty rich, coming from me, but you – you should own up to her, you know? T-trust me, it...” She lets out a heavy sigh, a mix of regret and relief and longing. “It makes things better. Eventually.”

 _god. what the hell am i even supposed to say to that?_ Pretty much all of his misgivings are rooted in one bit of knowledge, that it's all going to be torn away and erased except for a couple old photos and a letter if he was lucky. It makes explaining his problems next to impossible. He looks at Alphys – really **looks** at her, all earnest and full of friendship and hope – and it makes him want to vomit. _what's_ _**wrong** _ _with me? why am i_ _so scared of something that_ _**might** _ _happen, something that i'll never even realize, that i'm gonna sacrifice something i_ _**know** _ _would be good for me?_

“Uh. So. Yeah.” Alphys sits up, scratching at her arm. “Tch-tch-tch-tch-tchhhhhh. Do you –”

“just.” Sans closes his sockets and turns back to the desk, grabbing the transceiver and fiddling with the dials on the front. “let me work for a little while longer, okay?”

“A little while like... twenty minutes, or, uh, a little while like three hours?” No response. “Sans, Undyne and I are g-gonna go get some groceries, and I don't... I d-don't want you staying here and, and **wallowing,** okay? It doesn't help. T-take it from me.” He stays silent and adjusts a slider – the static gets louder and more obnoxious, and the two of them wince before he moves it back.

“We can take Frisk to Grillby's?”

In spite of himself, Sans realizes his eyes are wide open and his smile feels a lot more genuine. _still..._ “gimme fifteen minutes.”

“If – if you take longer than that, I'll t-tell Undyne, okay?”

“heh. alright.” Apparently satisfied, Alphys hoists herself up and heads back up the stairs, taking the empty plate and cans with her. “...hey, al.”

“Yeah?”

“thanks. for...” There were and are too many things to single one out. “...just. thanks.”

“You're welcome. And... thanks... to you too, Sans.” She laughs. “Us failures have to l-look out for each other, right?”

He nods, and she's gone.

 _alright._ Sans warps to the table behind him to grab a couple screwdrivers and the soldering iron. _fifteen minutes._

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was only **reasonable** for Sans to ask Asgore if he'd be okay with him dating Toriel. Sure, she didn't "belong to" Asgore or anything, but the old guy was working really hard lately between the landscaping business and diplomatic relations. Sans didn't want to force him to deal with that emotional burden at the same time, right?

And when the ex-king made it clear that yeah, it kind of stung, but he was okay with it so long as the two of them were happy, well, **naturally** Sans had to ask Frisk and Papyrus how they would feel about the whole thing, right? After all, Frisk was like Toriel's own flesh and blood (or... dust and SOUL?) at this point, and dating her would take time away from Papyrus and... in the long-run he'd end up being her brother-in-law, maybe, so he should have a say in things for that reason alone? Not that Sans had thought that far ahead, of course.

And if it had been a problem with any of them, well, that took precedence, obviously! _i mean, they still think they've got lives ahead of 'em, right?_

(It wasn't a very _funny_ joke, but he told it to himself about a hundred times anyway.)

But, no! They were okay with it too, which... was a good thing! Though they were almost a little _too_ okay with it, actually, but that was Frisk and Papyrus for you – you ask them a simple question about taking someone out to dinner, and suddenly they're helping you out with their Dating Expertise.

“i really don't think the shoes are necessary. can't i just –”

Frisk glares at him and kicks his familiar pair of slippers towards the corner of the room.

“alright, alright. i guess **loafers** suit me more, anyway. plus, they go well with the **slacks.** ”

“SANS!” Papyrus whips his head around. “DATE PREPARATION TIME IS NO TIME FOR WORDPLAY!”

“it's – it's not a date yet, pap.”

“DATE INQUIRY PREPARATION TIME –”

“yeah, yeah. but, uh, listen.” Sans tugs at the shirt he's wearing – a pale blue button-down, which is (sadly) nicer than any shirt he'd worn in years. “you sure all this is necessary, bone brummell? it feels like... i dunno. a lot?”

“IT IS IMPORTANT TO BE TRUE TO YOURSELF, BUT IF YOU DO IT TOO MUCH YOU'LL JUST BE TOO LAZY TO ASK AT ALL. NOW TRY ON THIS JACKET.”

Sans sighs, shrugs, and looks at Frisk. _back me up here, kid,_ he thinks, but they just cross their arms and nod. “wow, bro. that's... some interesting advice.”

“EVERYTHING I SAY IS INTERESTING! BUT REMEMBER...” Papyrus claps a hand against his breastplate, posing dramatically. “WHICH ONE OF US HAS DATED **MULTIPLE** PEOPLE IN THE PAST YEAR!”

“pap, one of your dates has flirted with just about every monster alive. and the other one's mettaton.”

“Hey!” Frisk shouts, though they only manage to hold back a grin for a split second.

“YES, AND METTATON HAPPENS TO BE A DATING EXPERT! AS DOES UNDYNE, MY BEST FRIEND WHO ISN'T FRISK! SO I NOT ONLY HAVE MY EXPERIENCE TO DRAW ON, BUT THEIRS TOO!”

Sans chuckles. “yeah, well... i just think our, uh, style maybe doesn't match up with yours, y'know?”

“DO NOT WORRY, SANS! I HAVE COMMANDEERED SEVERAL TERRIBLE JOKE BOOKS FROM THE LOCAL LIBRARY!” Papyrus immediately shoves them into his brother's arms, before he can get a word in edgewise. “TRUST ME. IF YOU JUST BRING IT BACK TO YOUR COMFORT ZONE, YOU WILL DO FINE!”

“heh. you really think so, bro?”

“I KNOW SO!”

Sans looks over at Frisk, who nods and gives him a thumbs-up before tossing a stack of polo shirts at him.

 

* * *

 

When his “coaches” finally see fit to shove him out of his room, Sans immediately knows where Toriel is. He can tell from the soft folk music and the clinking of a wooden spoon against a glass bowl, from the smell of cinnamon and vanilla and ginger that has to have suffused the entire house by now. Lately, every Friday feels like a holiday, a feeling only amplified when he passes through the living room, by the crackling fireplace.

And then he sees her standing there, tall and wearing the loveliest buttery-yellow dress he's ever seen – _all her clothes are the loveliest i've ever seen,_ he admits to himself – her fur like fresh snow in the sunlight. He stops dead in his tracks. The smile on his face feels forced – which, in a sense, it is, and has been for a while. But it's a **habit** now, to keep his face like that. He shouldn't **notice** it – it ought to be as natural as blinking. (Well, as natural as blinking is for someone with eyeballs and eyelids, anyway.)

 _i've really_ _**goat** _ _it bad, huh?_

He snickers, but he can't think about the joke for long. All he can think about is how much better his brother is at stuff like this. Papyrus wouldn't hesitate, he wouldn't worry, he wouldn't think about all the ways it could go bad. He'd just go for it.

Sans takes a deep breath. Time to follow his little bro's example, even if it makes him feel like the world is ending yet again. “hey, tori. heard you... could... uh, do you want some help with the baking?”

“Well, I would certainly never reject it.” She turns to face him, and is immediately taken aback. “Sans! You're so dressed up! What is the occasion?”

“ha, occasion? no, nothing much. uh...” He rolls up his sleeves and quickly shuffles over to the counter, grabbing a hunk of dough and rolling it out. His phalanges leave subtle marks, wiped away and replaced with each new movement. “right, so, the boss – our boss's boss, i mean, you know – was coming in today, so, uh, _our_ boss, said we should dress to impress. and i didn't get a chance to change?” He regrets everything, more and more with each word that he sputters out; he **especially** regrets accepting that wardrobe advice. _maybe this is their revenge._ _they're counter-pranking me._

“I thought your shift ended –”

“well, i **am** always late. though corpses tend to be.” _god, what was that? you're not even an actual corpse! what are you doing?_

“Hm.” Toriel smirks. “Well, I am glad that you were able to arrive on time.” She leans down and nuzzles her snout against his cheek, laughing when he flushes bright blue. “You know how much I appreciate your company.”

He doesn't say anything, at first. Just nods and rolls the dough and grins hard enough that it hurts his cheekbones. (It doesn't feel quite so forced, now.) Toriel is happy to fill the silence with talk of her students, and the new recipes she's been meaning to try, and old acquaintances from the ruins and new friends she's made since they came to the surface.

If Sans could, he'd gladly live the rest of his life doing nothing but listen to her and Papyrus. But that's not an option, and eventually she turns back towards him and says: “Oh, but you have not said a word in ages! What is on your mind, Sans?”

“s-so. uh.” He takes a deep breath. _you can do this, bud. comfort zone._ He raps twice on the countertop. “knock knock.”

“Oh?” As he takes in her smile, so genuine and kind, Sans is pretty sure he's about to die. “Who is there?”

“uh, les.”

“Les who?”

“les... grab dinner this monday?”

“Oh, that would be very nice!” She starts to pace, looking up at the ceiling. “It **is** a school night, though, so we will have to either go early or make sure that Frisk does their homework first, and –”

“n-no, uh... just... that is, uh, asgore was planning on taking them and paps to the movies. on monday.”

“Oh? I see.” Tori's wearing an expression of total innocence and obliviousness. Sans should know better than to take it at, _ahem_ , face value, but the thought doesn't occur to him - he can barely keep his head on straight. “Will Undyne and Alphys be coming with us, then? Ooh, or is a friend of yours from Snowdin in town?”

“i was. thinking it would be just the two of us, actually.”

She laughs again, kindheartedly, and pats him on the head. “I know, I was only teasing. And I would love to dine with you. Did you have somewhere specific in mind?”

“well, there's this big place on the corner of bayside and 63rd –”

“Oh!” Toriel's hands are at her mouth; her eyes are wide, practically sparkling. She quickly lets her arms fall, forces a neutral expression. “Sans, I know the restaurant you mean, but – my, I could never accept...”

“hey, it's my treat. honestly...” He hesitates. Sans has made it a rule for a while, now, that there's only three occasions when he's allowed to be sincere: talking about how much he admires his brother, talking shop with Alphys, and talking to Frisk about how their actions affect others. Everything else gets played for laughs or doesn't get said at all.

 _It makes things better. Eventually._ Alphys's words, still fresh in his mind.

 _screw it, then,_ he tells himself. _gotta start somewhere._ “...honestly, it's been a while since i did anything nice for myself either.”

“Still, are you sure you do not want to go somewhere... more affordable? I am not a queen anymore, you know.” She can't suppress her smile any longer, and Sans feels relief wash over him once he realizes another pun's coming. “You do not need to give me the **royal treatment** on the first date.”

“so you're a teacher now, big deal.” He winks, satisfied that she agreed... even if there's still something eating away at him, something he can't place, can't define. “that's even **more** reason to take you to a place with some class.”

She laughs, and places her hand on his, and he says something about being glad he had “no reservations about making reservations.” Everything feels faded, but sharp at the same time, like gems shining at the bottom of the sea, like bright flowers at the edge of his blind spot. The scent of cinnamon is tinged with the first hint of smoke and burnt crust; the old CD player in the corner skips twice. Sunlight – honest to god sunlight – streams through the windows.

Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe, _maybe_ , he'll be okay.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOSH I'm super sorry this took so long to update!! I had other fic ideas, and then finals, and job applications, and I've been doing a bunch of stuff over winter break...
> 
> ...Anyway. I'll see if I can update more often now, but no promises. I, too, dislike making them.

Toriel is _exhausted,_ but not in a bad way. That's not particularly special, really; it's sort of a fact of her life, lately. Goodness knows that all the diplomacy is enough work as it is; running a school and raising a child at the same time sometimes feels like a Herculean effort, even with Undyne and Papyrus and, yes, even Asgore, lately, offering their support when it comes to the latter. Not to mention that even if she hasn't physically aged in years -- even if she may not fall down until the world itself has died -- the decades have taken a mental toll.

But she would never complain, because compared to pacing a too-small and half-dead city within a too-small and stagnant cave, well... having too little energy and too many things to do  **definitely** beats having it the other way around.

Her shoes clack against the concrete -- normally she'd be barefoot, but she suspects a restaurant like this isn't going to be very lenient about the "no shoes, no service" policy, and besides, she had to find an excuse to wear those socks  _eventually._ The rhythm puts her at ease as she walks in the shadow of buildings far taller than she had ever imagined (some of them almost as tall as the mountain itself), as she walks besides neon blue and red and underneath incandescent orange and moonlight and the few faint stars she can see this deep in the heart of the city.

She often finds herself looking for things to put her at ease, because she's all too aware that, if someone were determined enough, her life could be over in an instant; even being the strongest monster alive, she can't escape the truth of her fragility. It's an  _irrational_ fear, she knows it is. Measure after measure has been taken to keep relations calm and the monster population safe, and even when they face...  _resistance,_ she calls it, to avoid calling it what it really is, it hasn't escalated to violence even once. Everyone is still accounted for. Everyone is still in one piece.

But it's not the kind of feeling one can easily shake off.

But then she sees him standing there wearing a relatively tasteful aloha shirt and the same exact slacks from the other day, smiling as wide as ever as he stares up at her, eyelights bright enough to drown out not just the stars in the sky but every light and every sign for miles, maybe even the moon itself, and... Well, she stops feeling  _tired,_ and starts feeling  _relaxed._

"i'd say it's  **hood** to see ya, but as you can see, that'd be a white lining."

"Oh, don't sweats it! Being too strict with your wordplay is for stuffed shirts." She gets the door for him, holding it wide open and taking in the interior, all fake-but-still-quite-nice candles and tasteful tablecloths. It's hard to remember the last time she's had a dinner at a place like this. Come to think of it, maybe she never has.

 _Well, it is about time,_ she decides with only a hint of smugness.

They already have a table arranged: apparently they don't usually do reservations, but Sans tells her that he pulled some strings. Based on the genuine eagerness the hostess greets him with, and the glint in the eyes of passing waiters, she figures this is one of his unspecified "side jobs;" it's either that, or he's a regular, which would mean he's actually been spending some money on himself, and that seems... uncharacteristic. As they approach their table (on the side, right by the window, where they have a beautiful view of the harbor's shimmering waters), she reminds herself to have a talk with him about that.

For a moment, it all feels beautiful. Perfect, even. She can hardly believe he managed to arrange all this.

Then she sits down.

_Phrrrrrrrrbt._

The shock wears off quickly enough for her to half stand up from the seat and retrieve the whoopie cushion without further incident. Sans is snickering and she feels warm and out of sorts but certainly not for any of the right reasons. This isn't how she felt back when Asgore courted her, and this isn't how she feels when the two of them are sharing jokes and leftovers on a lazy Sunday or walking through the woods on a summer evening. She cannot remember the last time she was the butt of the joke, and it may not hurt **much** but it hurts in a wholly unfamiliar way. **  
**

Sans, to his credit, realizes this quickly. "oh, jeez, uh. sorry about that, tori. little too much?"

She sighs, nodding. "You know that I very greatly appreciate your sense of humor, but there is a time and a place, do you not agree?"

"yeah, alright. i'll try to rein it in if you agree to  _reign_ it in."

A pause. "I'm afraid that I do not..."

"y'know, uh. with a g. 'cause... royalty, and stuff."

"Really, Sans. I don't know if I can baron other one that bad!"

The conversation is pleasant, if unremarkable, from there. The standard questions and answers  _(how's Papyrus, what've the kids been learning, what are you and Alphys working on, is Muffet planning another bake sale yet)._ By the time they order (surf and turf for him, potatoes and salmon with Béarnaise sauce for her) Toriel is starting to wonder if this even  **is** a date... he certainly acted as if it was one, but maybe that was just another prank, hm?  _Or... is this simply all there is to him? Is he truly this uncomplicated and... repetitive?_ No; she knows that isn't the case, knows there's something past the surface even if she can't put it into words. She's seen glimpses of it, briefly, but it's enough that she needs to find out what's there, enough that she won't be satisfied if he's nothing more than someone to share old jokes with (as truly, unironically wonderful as he may be in that capacity). She just needs to be patient.

Then Sans grabs a bottle of steak sauce, unscrews the cap and tosses it aside, and raises it up to his mouth, ready to gulp it down.

Toriel is overcome by panic -- _not here, not **now,** please just rein it in for one evening, my dear._ She clears her throat, frowning at him (not _too_ angrily, mind you, just enough that he gets the point). "Sans, we are in  **public.** "

"right you are, tori." He taps his finger to his nasal cavity, and for a moment she relaxes again. Then he downs the rest of his wine in one gulp and tips the bottle of A-1 over it, the sauce slowly piling up.  _This cannot be happening,_ she tells herself, stunned and unable to look away even as puts the bottle back down, even as he starts sipping on his sauce cocktail.

 ** _Screw_** _patience, then. It is time to bring out "the big guns."_ Toriel leans over, almost close enough to breathe on him, jabbing her fork into the corner of his steak and very slowly sawing at it. Gone is any hint of irritation or reluctance; that would mean _she_ was the one off balance, that his evasive tactics were **working** , but if she just keeps pushing back he'll have to give in eventually. Already, he's blushing -- if only a little, a slight tinge of robin's-egg at his cheekbones -- and his smile is extremely shaky. "h-hey there. didn't realize we had such a _close_ relationship."

"Well, I simply thought that this was as good a time as any to raise the steaks." She finishes cutting off a piece and brings it up to his mouth. Sans doesn't react until she playfully pokes it against his gritted teeth; when he does, she pops it right in his mouth with a giggle. "In all seriousness, Sans, I must admit... as much as I enjoy your company... I feel as if I do not really  **know** you." She sits up straight again and takes a swig of wine, not breaking eye contact with him for a moment, semi-consciously remembering all the lessons in posture and body language from when she was just a child herself. "You talk so much about your brother, and about Frisk, and even about Alphys, but I cannot think of a single time you truly told me something about yourself. And ever since we sat down here, it has felt as if you are deliberately trying to avoid opening up."

More quickly than she expects, Sans speaks in a tone she's never heard before -- one that doesn't exactly _frighten_ her, but definitely unnerves her, because it doesn't sound right coming from him. It's his same voice, but something about it is distinctly  _wrong._  "Toriel, listen. The thing is... if you knew what I'm really like, I don't think you'd..." He sucks in air through his teeth, producing a soft whistling noise which slightly undercuts how serious he's trying to be. "You wouldn't like it, so much. Is what I'm getting at."

"Sans, do not be ridiculous." Toriel reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder and he shrinks away. His eyes have gone dim, and for the first time, she's aware of how hollow the sockets really are. "You're a wonderful friend, and the thought of you being something more is almost too good to be true." She smiles with her mouth, if not with her eyes. "I  **want** to know about the person you really are, because I can say with certainty that he is worth it."

"That's..." He clearly wants to pull away further, but if he did he'd maroon himself in a spot where he couldn't reach the table. "Listen, a lot of the way I act is... it's not a  **lie,** but it's not the truth, either. I mean --" he laughs nervously -- "Sometimes even I can't tell whether I'm smiling for real. And even when I am, there's, uh... there's a lot of stuff weighing on my back, y'know?" He rubs at his neck, tracing the curves of a vertebra in a methodical fashion. "But, like, you and Papyrus and everyone, even Alphys, are just... you're all so vibrant and passionate, and caring, and  _fun,_ and I'm just some kind of sponge surviving off of that, and... all of you  **deserve** better than some bony sad sack, and maybe Papyrus will never abandon me but the rest of you might. Hell, maybe the rest of you  **ought** to."

Her eyes are like fire, past warm but not yet scorching. She almost wants to lift him over the table, hold him close to her, but she settles for leaning forward as far as she can, clasping both of his hands in hers. "Sans, I have been abandoned too many times myself, and..." She takes a deep breath. "I have abandoned an entire people. I do not know what else I could have done at the time, but it should have been something else. I  **promise** you this..."

She locks eyes with him, and sees that he's on the verge of tears. Even so, that smile of his is still in place, but it's clearly the product of a concerted effort, and all she can think is how badly she wants to see it disappear, how badly she wants him to just be  **honest,** how badly she wants to be let in so she can truly let him in, in turn. Even with her new friends, human and monster alike... even with her beloved child... Toriel can't shake the sense that she's deeply, deeply alone, that maybe she always will be.

 _But I will not **accept** that lying down, _ she thinks, and she steels herself. People have made many promises to her, in the past, but she tries to keep her options open; after all, it was a vow she made in response to a vow of Asgore's that left the Underground in such disarray. Still -- she's already promised Sans one thing. What's one more?

"I promise you that I will not make that mistake again. That I will never abandon you. And I highly doubt that Alphys would, or that Frisk would, and I  **know,** beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you deserve all that we can give you and more."

Before the entire sentence is out of her mouth, the smile is gone, and she's starting to feel her own eyes watering, too. She wants to ask the same of him, ask that he will stand by her in turn... but right now is not the time, she thinks. He looks tired. More tired than he ever has before.

But he also looks genuinely at ease, for the first time she can remember.


End file.
